


Rising

by redscout



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Basically, Gen, Innuendo, M/M, Other, Pining, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, adding tags as they become applicable, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: He can't admit how smitten he is until Grif looks at him like he's the rising sun and the warmth of dawn makes his heart sputter. When that sensation alone sends him into near cardiac arrest and hearing his name spoken finishes the job. He's probably still thinking about it 10 minutes later, too, because Grif has that habit of making important things nonchalant and it's just as charming as the rest of him.Okay, fine. He admits it now.





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> aka theres not Nearly enough grifnut content out there and im thirsty. technically a college au, mostly just not-in-space-or-dying. grimmons is mostly implied, mostly in tbe beginning. ill change the summary later its 1 am and ive stared at this for too long
> 
> sorry for the very messy disjointed writing but Enjoy

It's the first semester, and there's a mystery still yet to be solved floating around his conscience.

Two weeks in is when he finally meets him, and that was only because he knew Doc, and Doc knew Tucker, and Tucker knew Church who knew Caboose who knew Simmons who knew him. And they don't speak a word to each other for that first two and a half hours spent on the grounds during the weekend with his new roommate and his newly acquired friends, but they do make eye contact, and Donut has to remind himself that staring is rude. He just gazed into his beer after that, too muddled up in his own thoughts to think about much of anything else, and especially not the presence of the get together around him. Simmons' arm is wrapped about the other boy's shoulders rather tightly, and Donut thinks beer is pretty unappealing, anyway.

He can't remember if he's introduced himself or not when Halloween catches up with everybody and the whole group of them is huddled up around one of the telltale haunted houses he'd heard everything about but never seen in person. He knows he'd never done it himself, but he figures somebody else must've mentioned him by now after all the times he's shown up and laughed at a joke he barely heard. Staring is still rude and he stops looking at much of anything, then. He knows _his_ name. But it was easy to read Grif wasn't the kind of person that cared unless something forced him to. Donut supposed he was okay with that. Doc's muttering at him about something, whispering, maybe, but Donut is still looking at nothing in particular. Querying thoughts cloud his mind, and he goes through the motions.

It's the first time they speak when Church drives them to his place-- his sister was having a party, and he automatically figured the atmosphere would be more than perfect for Halloween time-- after that fair, and it's already 10, and Donut's starting to feel that first beer. Tucker is explaining another convoluted (" _but, HILARIOUS,_ ") situation that apparently went down the five people ahead of him in the haunted house, and a couple of people laugh, and Church punches him in the arm.

"He practically leapt right onto my shoulders. Remember whenever a monster would come 'round in Scooby Doo, and Shaggy would immediately jump into Scooby's arms? It was kind of like that." He punctuates it with a surprisingly accurate, stuttering "G-ghost!" which earns another couple of laughs and a seething scowl from Church. Donut is barely listening when he starts yelling at him, again, too. The red solo cup in his hand feels awfully heavy. He stands, to use the bathroom and maybe splash water in his face. He hates getting drunk, and the lack of easy-to-reach food isn't improving his opinion of it any time soon. 

He spends a long time staring at himself in the mirror, adjusting his curly, dyed bangs. He doesn't look quite a mess yet, but he feels it. He'd ask for a ride home soon enough.

All thoughts of leaving melt out of his mind when he runs smack into Grif in the hallway, and he backs up slightly, surprised.

"Oh, hey, I'm sorry," the shorter man starts half-heartedly, but he squints for a minute afterward, in thought. "You're that Donut guy, right?" And Donut's heart does an uncharacteristic jump when he says his name, so enamored he nearly forgets to respond.

"Oh, yes," he stammers out swiftly, trying to cover for his own blunder with faked aloofness. He's 100% sure Grif sees right through him, but he doesn't question it. "You're Grif, right? Simmons' roommate."

"Yeah. Lemme squeeze on by there, we can continue this conversation _after_ I piss." And Donut is close enough when he moves again that he can smell the alcohol on him, too. Maybe he's just not thinking straight in general. After all, he's only 19-- cheap beer has different effects on the adolescent brain, and he's not overtly thrilled at discovering what those effects are.

When he returns to the circle, Church and Tucker seem to be having one of those which-guy-can-embarrass-his-best-friend-more debates, and he sits maybe a little bit closer to Simmons, gives a bit of room in between them. The water seemed to help, but now he's fully on edge, unaware of truly how quickly he was left awake and alert. He's listening now, and everybody's beginning their chatter above Tucker and Church's bickering. By the time Grif's back and sitting in between he and Simmons the noise level is back to a cacophony, and he's having a hard time listening to anybody in particular. Doc looks ready to go home, but they don't live close-- or have a car at this residence. The absent question of how they'd get back to their dorms drifts through his subconscious menacingly.

"Hey." That breaks him out of his lack of focus. Grif is looking at him with those deep, brown eyes and he feels compelled to shut up entirely. "You look nervous, man. Chill out. Parties are fun."

"Oh, I've been cottaging before," he chokes out, and realizes a second too late it came out a little more forcefully than he may've liked. "I just, uh. I don't know everyone here! It's maybe a little overwhelming." And Grif tips his own cup at him with that lazy simper on his lips.

"Have another drink. _Loosen up_ , dude," he chides, breaking the gesture a moment to take an actual sip of his beer. Donut stares into his own for a minute, still pitifully full and getting warmer by the minute. Grif still seems to be paying attention, because his eyes are on him again.

"...I don't know," Donut starts again softly. "What if I have to drive or something? You never know when a problem's about to pop up! You have to remain erect and ready at _all_ times." And Grif cocks an eyebrow at this, setting his cup down on the floor behind him. Apparently unsatisfied with that answer, the only acknowledgement of his statement is a gentle touch on the bottom of Donut's drink that has him lifting it slowly closer to his face. Truth be told, he was a little anxious. The idea of winding down with a little alcohol didn't seem all that bad anymore.

"We'll convince Church. Or Doc. He doesn't drink much, does he?" Donut shakes his head in response, a little dumbfounded and out of his element when he finally succumbs to sipping at his beer again, which apparently earns him a smile from the man on his right. He glances over, eyes wide and glistening. Grif was right. Parties _are_ fun. In that moment, there's nowhere he'd rather be.

His mind is clouded over when he finds himself in the SUV with everybody else, crammed into the 7 people seating as best as they could fit. Doc's driving and Church is in the passenger's seat, so there's at least a little pinchof soberness to keep the rest of them safe. He's leaned back, yelling something about puking in his parents' car, but nobody seems to be listening much, the chatter from earlier a muted, slurry drone. _Two more drinks was definitely too many_ , he thinks idly, when he refocuses his vision and realizes he's staring again. Still rude, always rude. Besides, Grif is practically asleep with Simmons piled on top of him in the back seat. The flash of Tucker's smartphone camera finally forces him to turn away, glancing briefly out the window and catching glimpses of dark houses they pass. A side of him hopes he remembers this part later, but the other side's already working to forget.

It's later, when he's in bed that night, staring at the ceiling again, that he addresses his demons. He already knows he's got it bad, and it takes all of his remaining energy not to let out the tentative wail he feels in regards to the situation. Not even two months in, of his first semester, at 1:24 in the morning, he pieces together that Dexter Grif is that mystery, still yet to be solved.


	2. Gather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> were still getting into some expositional plot shit and conflicts for later on so bear with me

Classes bowl him through the rest of the year like a tidal wave, and Donut wonders where the time got away from him so badly when it's already November and the chill's starting to offset everybody's mood. Doc stays in more, talks less, studies. Finals are soon but he's not focused on that-- he's applying to other schools, medical schools or schools with good medical programs and Donut is ashamed to admit he doesn't want him to leave. Seasonal Affective Disorder is rampant in their dorm room, and he feels guilty that there's not more he can do to help.

Everyone grows scarce as studying and projects and papers become more important than social interaction, and Donut's considered turning to all the kids he knew who were in with sports scholarships. Church's sister hung out with them, he remembered that much, but the only person he'd ever talked to personally was the coach of the Grifball team and his lackey (who didn't really seem like much of a lackey). He was a sturdy, hardy man who really liked to yell, and Donut could tell from the start that he was going to get along with him, athletically inclined or not. The other man was more reserved, but much thicker, shoulders and legs toned. He looked much more fit to be a sports coach. The only time Donut had ever heard him speak, it was in Spanish, and he still knew enough from high school to determine he wasn't the nicer of the two.

The players themselves all looked like actual athletes was his immediate thought upon finally meeting them, and he was particularly guarded around the women's team, just because more than half of them looked like they could crush his head with their thighs if they chose. Most of them seemed heavily preoccupied with each other, but some met eyes with him regardless, set-in, intensified looks. 

"Son, why do you hang around here if you're not gonna help me with my team," the coach finally questions, and Donut's bundled up on the bench next to him, watching the players move liberally around the field.

"Sarge," he addresses-- the coach demanded players refer to him as such and Donut dared not question it-- "I'm just here for moral support! Isn't that help enough?"

"No!" he snaps in return. "You sit around, you use up our resources. Some of the players are even complaining about your 'moral support' methods!"

"A smack on the butt is just good luck where I come from," Donut affirms, kicking his feet. The conversation seems to end there, as Sarge crosses his arms and stares out at the frosted field before them, the only noise now the sustained chatter of the scrimmaging players. He was considering heading back to the dorm soon-- it was already 6, and Doc probably hadn't gotten anything to eat since he'd left earlier. He moves to go just as Lopez sits down on the other side of Sarge, a clipboard in hand and a towel over his shoulder. 

"Lopez! You've met Donut, right?" Sarge starts, and Donut moves to correct him, wondering absently why people insist on calling him by his last name, but the coach continues cheerily. "Maybe we can make him a sub, too!" And then he turns back to Donut. "How good are you at swinging things, boy?"

"I mean, if you're asking, I'm pretty good with rods, sir," he states proudly, and Lopez stares at him, expression unreadable. "I guess I really excel in throwing balls around."

"Irrelevant. You'll do." Sarge waves him off, and Lopez writes something down, not even bothering to talk. It was very evident Sarge didn't speak a lick of Spanish from the few moments Donut had spent time with them, but he tried to respond anyway, perhaps hearing what he wanted out of Lopez's offhanded comments.

"Well, I actually can't right now, but you could call me up some other time, for sure!" Donut finally stands, throwing the end of his scarf over his shoulder again. "Good luck with practice, Sarge. And you too, Lopez!" And he moves a foot down the sideline before stopping. A figure was moving toward the party on the bench, carrying something like a cooler, whom Donut immediately recognized as Grif. Their eyes meet, but the shorter man's pace doesn't pick up at all. The freshman sits back down, trying to remind himself not to stare, but he greets Grif when close enough. It's evident he's shivering even under the overtly large number of layers he has on. 

"Hey Donut," he greets gently, when he's made it to the bench, and then stares daggers at Sarge. "I hate you," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and then tosses the cooler in his direction nonchalantly. 

"You want that extra money or not, dirtbag?" Sarge asks casually, seemingly not at all bothered by the younger man's hostility. Grif turns to leave without even bothering to give him an answer, and Sarge calls back, "I'll take that as a no until you say otherwise!" Donut's frozen in place for a moment before he realizes his friend is already leaving, and he mutters a hasty goodbye before he's up and walking alongside Grif.

"What do you have to do with sports?" he questions slowly, shoving his hands in his pockets, and Grif seems to notice him for the first time now, glancing up. "Are you on the Grifball team?"

"No," he sighs, tucking his chin deeper into his thick jacket. "Sarge just calls me a 'sub' because I don't have to show up unless all of the players are deathly ill. I, uh, also run stuff by him, for money. Sometimes." He shakes his head. "If you ask me? It's some big sham, but I need it, so whatever." Donut's about to reply, but Grif keeps going, his tone subtly lower. "Also, I know you're new around here and all, but don't think that makes us instantly friends. You haven't earned my respect yet." It's an entirely nonchalant statement, but Donut can tell he's completely serious, nearly stopping in his tracks at his bluntness. He can't tell whether or not that meant he should get lost, but with a lack of continuation, he figured it was okay for right now. 

They stay silent and side by side-- with some leeway in between them-- all the way back to the dorms, a gentle snow beginning to drift down. Grif's mood seems to drop the further they walk, and the blonde makes a mental note to bring it up again later. Grif and Simmons' dorm is on the floor below Donut's, so as he approaches the end of 2B, he glances behind him to see Grif fumbling liberally for his keys, a muttered "I hate the cold" all but muffled against his jacket. Donut could've gone up the stairs at the end of the hallway they came in at, but he feels his face burn anyway when he realizes he walked the shorter man all the way to his dorm. He moves up the stairs, finally, movements almost mechanical as his mind continues to drift. So they weren't friends yet. That could change.

\- - -

Coffee shops weren't an ideal place to eat, but it's already 8 by the time he finally manages to coax Doc away from his textbooks, and the only others still willing to meet up with them apparently need the caffeine, too. He's inspecting the menu through and through, making sure there was some source of sustenance other than _bean water_ to get Doc a little more bright-eyed. Church reassures him when he and Tucker take a seat at their little table, looking tired but overall in a better mood than the last time he'd spent time with him.

"I was hoping somebody else practiced 8 o' clock coffee runs." Tucker beams at the other two in greeting and Donut offers a simper in return, nudging Doc softly.

"Well, I figured we ought to get out. He's been sitting in the same position for hours," he chides, crossing his arms, and Doc's cheeks heat up when the other two also focus their attention on him.

"I'm fine," he confides simply, shrugging, and Donut looks concerned. "I'm not really all that hungry, and I've got work to do." He doesn't move, but Church stares at him.

"You're just gonna leave?" he finally responds. "Oh, come on, man, you might as well, you're already here!"

"Yeah, Doc. I mean, I know we don't all really get along all that well sometimes," Tucker concedes, "but something like this can change that, you know?"

"I didn't say I was leaving," he returns quietly, and Donut's eyebrows furrow in worry. 

"Guys? Maybe we should just go order our drinks," he volunteers, trying to change the subject. The other two seem to agree, however silent, and they stand, Donut keeping a hand on Doc's shoulder as a statement of reliability. He seems to offer him a muted smile, and instantly, the taller man feels better.

The drinks are dropped off at their table when everybody's nearly finished with the food-- Donut insisted on getting the table, at the very least, bagels and quiches-- and Doc seems to be opening up a bit more, lively and engaged in their conversations. Even Church seems to be in a good mood, and it's 10:15 before the barista is finally shouting at them to leave. Begrudgingly, they part in front of the shop, and exchange smiles before going their separate ways, and Donut loops his arm in his roommate's as they begin, breath fading in the chilly night air as a mist. The shop was on campus, but still a far cry from their dorm building, so Donut settles into the silence again, lavishing even in this little interaction.

"...Thank you," Doc utters after a long time, and Donut glances over at him, eyes slightly widened.

"For what?" he murmurs, staring at his friend curiously. Doc's eyes are focused on the ground, and his expression is entirely mellow.

"Getting me out," he returns slowly. "Including me. I... I don't know if you know how much that means to me." And a dulcet smile spreads across Donut's face, and he jerks his arm in Doc's for a moment.

"It's no trouble, dude. You're my friend! And my roommate, but more importantly my friend." He offers a cheeky beam, and Doc glances up. "I care about you, you know? I don't need you to starve yourself to death in our dorm." The grip on his arm tightens and Doc's eyes sparkle. It's quiet the rest of the way there, but both of them are alright with it, the reticence muted and comforting. It's a quarter 'til when their grip on one another finally parts, and they enter their dorm, feeling a little more exhausted than either of them is willing to let on. 

They climb into their respective beds and it's lights out immediately, and, tonight, Donut's eyes aren't focused on the ceiling; he feels alright about today, and he's going to sleep. Doc, however, is not so lucky. He's stiff in the darkness, poised for the anxiety pooling in his chest. It's when he opens his eyes again that he realizes the issue; he's got it bad, too.

**Author's Note:**

> my motivation gets shaky sometimes so im doing my best trying 2 keep up w writing and it rly encourages me 2 get feedback and see how everythings sitting with the public so please feel free to comment


End file.
